


Case 24: The Adventure Of The Baneful Bonanza (1881)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [32]
Category: Bonanza, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Caring, Caring Castiel, Denial of Feelings, Destiel - Freeform, England (Country), F/M, Impersonation, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Scotland, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 10:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16406291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: ֍ Holmes is distracted from other pressing concerns by his father asking him to assist a friend whose plans for the future of his estate have hit a sudden bump in the road.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majesticduxk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticduxk/gifts).



_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

If I had had any doubts as to my feelings towards a certain John Dean Watson, they were very effectively dispelled by an even that happened only a few days into the New Year. My friend treated all sorts of patients and often came home looking exhausted, but on this particular day he returned to Cramer Street with what was most definitely a bruise on his cheek. I stared at him in shock.

“What happened?” I demanded.

He looked surprised at my rough tone but answered readily enough.

“I was treating old Miss Brown for gastroenteritis”, he said, “and she lashed out at me with her stick.”

“But she did apologize?” I asked. He shook his head,

“She told me that she would be getting a better doctor in future”, he sighed as he sloped off to his room.

I stared after him, quietly seething that some stroppy old woman had dared to lay a finger on my.... friend. This warranted urgent action.

֍

Two days later Watson returned to our rooms in a much happier frame of mind.

“Miss Brown has formally apologized to me”, he said sounding astonished at that. “And the surgery has told her that not only will she not be seen again and that they expect payment of my bill within seven days, but if they do not get it they will warn other surgeries in the area about her.”

He looked so much happier. It was worth a visit to my parents' house and having to hear about my mother's latest efforts at fiction – seriously, yachtsmen using their ropes for unusual purposes on the slipway! - to have put a smile on that beautiful face.

I smiled to myself at Watson's reaction if anyone had indeed called him beautiful. He would pout so prettily and flush bright red, those gorgeous freckles of his would stand out even more and......

Lord, I was in so much trouble!

֍

Fortunately a distraction arrived a few weeks later when my father asked if I would help out a friend of his who owned a farm in Shropshire. I tentatively asked Watson if he would be able to come with me – it was one of my many failings that I too often assumed his compliance, and I deservedly felt the pain every time I saw that look on his face that told me yes, I was taking him for granted again – and thankfully he agreed. He was coming anyway; had he not been available my father's friend would just have had to wait.

Mr. Benjamin Cartwright owned a large estate in the Marcher county that lay not far from the small town of Bridgnorth in the Severn Valley. Watson filled me in on the history of the town as he knew it, which little interested me if truth be told except that I could have listened to him recite the business directory if....

As I said, so much trouble.

The oddly-named Ponderosa Farm was the centre of the estate and lay just south of the aforementioned town. The farm was a fair-sized place in itself, and I wondered more than a little about my client when I saw the name inside a sign shaped like a bull's head.

“The name comes from the Civil War Royalist commander Sir John Poundriss”, said my resident mine of information. “Sorry, I know you are not overly fond of history.”

He looked ashamed at his outburst. I had indeed once told him that my brain functioned as well as it did because I did not clutter it up with unnecessary facts, but I could not be having him look so sad.

“Sometimes the key to the present is indeed in the past”, I said, relieved to see his face clearing, “and in this case I think the more recent past may be the key.”

“What exactly is the problem here?” he asked.

“Mr. Benjamin Cartwright is getting on in years and looking to the future”, I said. “His three sons – each by a different marriage but apparently they get on well enough which is unusual itself in this day and age – and they were set to inherit and run the estate between them. But now a potential fourth son has turned up things are more complicated.”

“You think that this new son is an impostor?” he asked.

“I do not know yet”, I said. “I managed to institute some inquiries in London before we left and hopefully they will clarify things one way or another soon enough. I thought that we would call on Mr. Cartwright as a courtesy and then adjourn to the nearby town, where the possible extra son is also staying.”

“I would wager the three sons he already has are far from happy at his arrival”, he said.

“Neither would most people be when they see their share of an inheritance cut from one-third to one-quarter”, I said. “From what little information I have on them they seem to have accepted it readily enough, but as we know appearances can be deceptive. We shall soon see for ourselves.”

֍

Mr. Benjamin Cartwright was a solid, muscular fellow in his fifties, with a pair of keen eyes beneath his iron-grey hair. He was grateful to us for coming to investigate his problem (and thankfully for him he did not make the mistake some people did of disrespecting Watson's role in my work, something which had led me to stop working for more than one client) and answered all my questions readily enough. He admitted that after the loss of his third wife in giving birth to his third son he had indeed sought solace elsewhere, so the newcomer's claims at least stood up on those grounds.

His sons were, as I said, each by a different wife, and it showed. The eldest, Adam, was most similar in appearance to his father, a tall dark fellow who very evidently viewed us with suspicion but was prepared to respect his father's decision to bring us in. The second, Eric, was beefy and muscular ( _someone_ really did not need to whisper that at least we knew who had eaten all the pies, damn him!), and the third, Joseph, tall and almost otherworldly but friendly enough. A very mixed bunch; I wondered what the fourth son – or not – would be like.

֍

The answer was.... very different again. We arrived in Bridgnorth, a curious little town that was actually in two parts with an area down by the sinuous River Severn and an attractive High Street on a hill above. I know it always annoyed Watson that despite his apparent physical fitness when compared to me I always seemed to find climbing hills easier than he did. We stayed at a small tavern on the (aptly-named for once) High Street which was quite pleasant.

The next day I arranged for us to meet Mr. Henry McLeod who, I assumed, would be suspicious about our involvement in matters. To my surprise he was far from it.

“I can see why Dad would want to make sure of things”, he said in a broad American accent. “I have no problem with you or a lawyer of his looking at my paperwork Mr. Holmes, provided I am there to see fair play.”

“Given the size of his estate such caution is indeed understandable”, I agreed. “You say that you are the result of an affair between Mr. Cartwright and an American lady visiting this country just over two decades ago, one Miss Henrietta Flagg?”

The young man nodded. He was about twenty years of age, sallow-skinned and very clearly had nothing of his father in him. If Mr. Cartwright was indeed his father.

“I was visiting the Old Country when I read about the old man just before Christmas”, he said. “Naturally I waited until after it was over before introducing myself. They seem all right with me I suppose, though Hoss doesn't like me much.”

('Hoss' was I knew the nickname of the middle son Eric, _not_ so named as some snarky bow-legged bastard had suggested because he was built like a house!).

“We shall of course be instituting inquiries through the medium of the transoceanic telegraph”, I said, “as well as here. May I ask which part of the country you were visiting when you made the discovery?”

He looked surprised at the question but answered it.

“Ayrshire, up in Scotland”, he said. “My grandmother – my mother's mother - came from Kilmarnock and I wanted to see what the place was like. Not that impressive at it turned out but I made a tour of the place for a couple of months.”

“I am surprised that you came over in winter rather than waiting for better weather”, I said. “Even with the wonderful invention of the steamship it must have been an unpleasant crossing.”

“It was not too bad”, he said. “And luckily I do not get sea-sick. My mother's brother Gresham died last year and left some jewellery items to her, and as she hates travelling I said that I would come over and get them for her.”

“Well, I do hope that we are able to resolve matters for you swiftly”, I said.

“I hope so too, sir”, he said politely.

֍


	2. Chapter 2

My inquiries down in London yielded little over the next few days except to confirm large parts of the incomer's testimony. A Mr. Gresham McLeod had indeed died in Kilmarnock the previous year and in his will had left certain family jewellery items to his sister Henrietta, and Mr. Henry McLeod had indeed had a crossing on the _'Adonia'_ that November. It looked very much as if he was who he had said he was.

Until Watson, who so often underestimated his own talents, made a most astute observation that put me right.

“This Mr. McLeod”, he said as we sat in an inn one evening. “He does have some money of his own, does he not?”

“He does”, I said. “His mother was one of three children and unusually all were named co-heirs to their father's estate. Unfortunately for our visitor both the late Mr. Gresham and his brother Mr. Graham married and had children so he cannot inherit from them, but his mother's money is more than adequate to keep them both, and indeed to afford him a long holiday in Great Britain even if it is part business.”

“I wonder why he did not bring a companion then”, Watson mused. “People of that sort of wealth usually do.”

I stared at him in astonishment. He looked back, clearly perplexed.

“What?” he asked. “Have I said something stupid?”

“No”, I said. “Something very clever. All the time that he was describing his trip to Scotland he kept saying 'I', yet surely someone of his means must have come over with someone for the company. I shall telegraph to London immediately and find out.”

“You will not”, he said firmly.

“Why?” I asked, puzzled.

He gestured to where a waitress was bringing over our meals.

“Your half a pig's worth of bacon is here!” he grinned.

He was right, damn him. I would have to telegraph later but I could do that from the railway station even if it was in the 'Low Town' as they called it. It would be worth a walk not to miss out on bacon!

֍

Watson, bless the fellow, had been right over the companion. The first crack in Mr. McLeod's story. Not as so often in my adventures an open lie, but an omission of the truth that made me wonder what else he was hiding. I instituted a new line of inquiry North of the Border and awaited developments with interest. And sure enough they came.

֍

About two weeks later Watson, Mr. McLeod and I drive back to Ponderosa Farm where we were to meet Mr. Cartwright. To give him credit the incomer had not asked if I had either confirmed or negated his claims but he did seem quietly confident. 

He really should not have been.

Mr. Benjamin Cartwright greeted us affably enough and the seven of us sat down. I caught Mr. Joseph's Cartwright eye and he nodded very slightly to me. Good.

“This has been a most interesting investigation”, I said. “I know that the modern policeman is far too often judged on how far and fast they run round gathering clues and making inquiries, but with the modern telegraphic system reaching even across the wide Atlantic Ocean that is not always necessary. I am pleased to tell you, Mr. Cartwright, that my investigations have reached a conclusion and that Mr. Henry McLeod is indeed your son.”

That clearly caught most people in the room by surprise. Mr. Benjamin Cartwright recovered first.

“You are sure?” he asked.

“As much as one can be”, I said. “Until they develop some sort of technology which can identify the father by blood or some such then one can never be one hundred per cent certain. But yes. You most definitely had a relationship with Miss McLeod, and a son was the result of it.”

“This fellow?” Mr. Eric Cartwright said dubiously.

“There are however a couple of small points that need to be cleared up first”, I said, and I caught the way that Mr. McLeod's face fell at those words. “First, sir, you said that your mother was Miss Henrietta McLeod.”

Mr. McLeod looked at me in confusion.

“She is, sir”, he said warily.

“Then perhaps you might explain something to me”, I said. “You see, I contacted Mrs. Brewster as she has since become through the electronic telegraph, and asked her one particular question which, although it doubtless surprised her, she duly answered. And that was as to how she preferred to be addressed.”

They all looked at me in confusion.

“Mrs. Brewster always called herself 'Hattie'”, I explained. “She disliked her given name of Henrietta although she did not change it out of respect for her parents. But across the wide blue seas she always called herself 'Hattie', never 'Henrietta'. A true son of hers would surely have known that.”

Everyone was looking at Mr. McLeod now.

“I can call my mother what I wish” he said testily. “I do not like the short form name at all.”

“I rather think that the second matter will not be so easily disposed of”, I said calmly. “There is someone I should like you to meet.”

I walked over to the slightly open door into the next room and opened it fully. A tall, broad-shouldered young blond fellow walked through.

“Gentlemen”, I said, “I would like you all to meet Mr. Henry McLeod!”

The impostor snarled and whipped out his gun and fired!

A red stick shot out from the end of the gun, and a brightly-coloured banner unfurled from it. It read 'Bang!'. He was still dumbfounded when Mr. Eric Cartwright was onto him, pinning him to the ground. His brothers joined him and soon applied the handcuffs that I had just happened to have had on me.

“You bastard!” he snarled at me.

“Very true”, I said. “One of my more questionable clients in recent years has been one of London's top pickpockets. Rather than take payment in cash I took it in skills; I was able to take your gun from the pocket, then replace it with a little bauble that I purchased in the town recently. I had a feeling that you might react badly to the reappearance of the gentleman whose inheritance you were trying to steal.”

Mr. Benjamin Cartwright gasped.

“You mean.....”

I gestured to the newcomer.

“This, gentleman, is the _real_ Mr. Henry McLeod, and from his face alone I would say almost certainly your fourth son”, I said. “He came to Great Britain as we were told and did indeed journey around Scotland, but what was not mentioned in what this other personage told us was the fact that he came with a travelling companion, Mr. Evan Jones here. It was Mr. Jones who read about your illness last December and who spotted a chance to acquire himself a great bonanza. He invented an excuse to have to return home early, but on leaving his friend came here and pretended to be him. His friendship with the gentleman he was impersonating had enabled him to learn much of the family, and the documents he was taking back for his friend served a double purpose in reinforcing his story. I suppose we should just be grateful that he did not stoop to murdering him there and then, hoping that he would return home none the wiser.”

Mr. Adam Cartwright looked uncertainly at the real Mr. McLeod.

“You sure look like one of us”, he said warily.

“I sure am”, Mr. McLeod said. “And right sorry, sirs, to see what a man I had thought a friend was doing to my good name. My poor mother will be mortified.”

“And you did not come over to claim part of the estate, then?” Mr. Joseph Cartwright said warily.

“Sir, I did not”, Mr. McLeod said. “Indeed as a bastard offspring I would have expected nothing – unlike my former friend here.”

“Impersonation is not a crime”, Mr. Jones said sulkily.

“You are forgetting the small matter of attempted murder in front of a rather impressive number of witnesses”, I pointed out. “Despite your being a United States citizen, I dare say that your own country will take a dim view of such proceedings.”

֍

Indeed they did. Given the still rather parlous relations across the Pond the British government agreed to return Mr. Jones to his home land provided they received an assurance that he would be properly tried and suitably sentenced if/when found guilty. Despite the best (or worst) efforts of his lawyer twelve good men and true decided that he had indeed sought to kill his former friend and he duly paid the full penalty. 

Even better, Watson was rewarded for his inspiration by my buying him three full-sized pies from the bakery in Bridgnorth before we leaved, one of which actually survived to see London. I was frankly impressed that it was even one!

֍


End file.
